Safe
by Lady Serpentine
Summary: Drizzt is safe now. But not from himself.


Despite the fact that I rarely find myself reading Forgotten Realms anymore, I always still feel the need to make half-hearted attempts at fic. I don't know why. So here you go. And it's set in the modern world because you know. Yes. You do. Of cooourse you do.

This is a story. And there is snow. I thought, Christmas is coming. So what the Hell.

Be warned. Edited only once.

xxx

It's cold above the ground.

Below the ground it's all heat, strong and damp and moist, and the air tastes like sex. Above the ground it's different. If the sun is so hot, then why is it so cold? But that, there, is the mystery of life. Mystery is what feeds the wise. The priestesses of Lloth say, there is no mystery between them and their goddess; but that is because they are foolish, and Lloth delights in her fools, because what silly games they play between themselves when they think no others are looking. But Lloth is always watching.

Above the ground the sun burns the Lady Lloth's eyes and so in a way Drizzt is safe. A long time ago he wasn't but now, now he has no need to fear. A long time ago Drizzt fell in love but now, centuries later, the bitterness of winter has frozen his hopes and in the coming sun they have melted. Sinking into the cracks that litter the pavement like imperfect spider webs, lacking the design, the symmetry, the intent.

And no matter how hot it gets winter always comes back.

For a long time Drizzt had wanted to stay in the big cities where there was less pointing, where oddities were if not welcomed at least ignored. But Drizzt found he missed being separate from the common folk, and he didn't know why he referred to them as common inside his head because he knew there must be something more within them, something interest or charming or amazing. But on other levels, Drizzt knows there isn't.

Everyone he knew is dead, now. Except, save, maybe, for Elaith, whom he chanced upon thirty years ago outside a used car dealership. Drizzt hadn't known what Elaith was doing there; Elaith hadn't said. They kept it that way; mystery is what keeps life interesting, after all, and when you are an elf and your life seems to stretch on interest is important.

But Elaith could be dead now for all Drizzt knows, and he wasn't ever on very good terms with Elaith anyway, who lived longer than he should have, who never seemed to age, elven as he was, and who did bad things when the sun was down. There was something uncanny about Elaith and it crept up on Drizzt, slowly, until the drow couldn't take it anymore and that was the end of that.

Off; off Drizzt goes. Out into the country where things are more natural. Less pavement. Less people. Less noise. (But now Drizzt can hear his thoughts more clearly and this is not, in essence, what anyone would have wanted).

Humans have this habit that Drizzt likes which is the habit of growing up to reflect surroundings; they are the Mirror People. And in the country the Mirror People are Country People. They talk more but as much as they talk they don't speak about anything else or anything important. Some things just can't be said; other things are beaten apart with words until nothing more can be added, until something else just as interesting comes along.

And sometimes those interesting things don't come and Drizzt finds himself bored to death of the talk of why the local pastor rolls up his sleeves in that funny, unstylish way. He is almost glad when all the topics are exhausted and all that is left is talk of how Drizzt really ought to get a girlfriend by now, settle down, become a family man.

(Of course by then Drizzt is dying to talk about Pastor Jordan's sleeves again).

In winter the snow falls thick and it's not soft and cuddly but it's hard and diamond-shaped, cutting and angry; angry angry snow. Angry like Drizzt's father, but Drizzt doesn't think about Zaknafein much, because really. He's dead. Nothing left to think about there. Just bury it, Drizzt, he tells himself, bury it and leave it alone.

And he buries it.

But then he digs it back up again because it's the only thing tangible of his that's left.

"Digging up someone else's grave is a sin, you know," says Drizzt's neighbour, and odd man with calm, brown eyes. Drizzt has long ago learned that the more uninteresting colour of another's eyes means the more on-guard he should be.

No one talks about Drizzt's neighbour, because he goes past interesting and into taboo; too many cuts on his arms that are too orderly, too thoughtful. A father that did awful things, and hair that's just a tad too unkempt. When the other people do find themselves talking about him they talk about his hair. (Drizzt cut his long ago, and keeps it that way).

"Everything's a sin," Drizzt points out. "Depends on who you ask."

"I know," says Drizzt's neighbour (who reads tarot cars and rumour-has-it has done some strange, strange things). "But, no matter where you are, digging up a grave means two things: you're a bad person, or a stupid person."

Drizzt doesn't have a shovel so he uses his hands.

He freezes and cuts his hands on the hard, glittering snowflakes; tears his nails short by the hardened, icy ground and blood speckles the white and brown, just like Christmas.

It grows dark too fast in the winter. Too, too fast. He flicks all the light switches on, even when he sleeps. His electricity bill is ghastly but he pays it anyway. Anything to keep the dark out. Anything to keep the light on, inside his head.

He yearns for summer like he yearns for death. But the world is too safe now, and there is no one to fight him, to kill him, not unless he goes crooked, sells drugs or maybe kills people for money. Or just kills people for the Hell of it. There is no danger for Drizzt Do'Urden, now. Nothing left for him to fight. And suicide is a sin.

"Get over it," says his neighbour when he finds Drizzt clawing with bloodied hands at the snow. "You need a shovel to do that."

He leaves and comes back with a shovel, a heavy, rusty thing. Drizzt hopes his neighbour goes mad (madder than usual), and slams it against the back of Drizzt's head, and that will be the end of that. He doesn't. He hands the shovel to the dark elf.

"If I have to stick around then so do you," his neighbour says.

The ground is frozen and sharp and slivers of earth stab up. Hit me in the eye, please, Drizzt thinks. But earth lets none command it; it does its own bidding. Drizzt's eyes are unharmed. He is alone. The wind is bitter and cold and tugs at the hem of his long black coat. He is chilled all the way down to his marrow.

Drizzt is a good person but no one wants them around anymore. Drizzt doesn't even want himself around, driven to irritation by his own morals and principles, by the schooling voice in his head, the shadows of his dead loves and the ghost of his father.

Summer is going to come, Drizzt tells himself. He wants to dig deep, dig down, where it's hot and sultry, where the darkness will maybe swallow him up. But he is scared and here, on top, the earth is frozen.

Yet Drizzt cannot wait.


End file.
